


Hair (The Curls that Cloud my Mind)

by Spacecarrots



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Haircuts, M/M, bc thats a tag u can have, i guess, pynch - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 11:05:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5663896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spacecarrots/pseuds/Spacecarrots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ronan needs a hair cut and Adam, as with everything he does, make it a magical thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hair (The Curls that Cloud my Mind)

**Author's Note:**

> enjoy them being cute while it lasts assholes!!!!!

At the age of 14 Ronan had been the proud owner of thick, shoulder length, black curls. A wild thicket of dark knotted ringlets, a chaotic collection of weeds that matched his wicked features. They were nothing like Mathew’s, the softly woven and spun gold crowning, his head almost as bright as his smile. Neither like Declan’s artsy curves and brush strokes that resisted control and begged to be studied. That was before he’d decide to crush them down on his scalp with hideous amounts of hair product and capitalism. But Ronan felt it suited him now, just like his buzzcut did him. Of course Mathew was still pure gold and his hair would never reflect anything but if he'd dreamt him correctly. 

This particular style, or reflection, for Ronan had come slower than the glaring locals thought it might have. It had not all been done in a fit of rage, or in some attempt of attention. It had been an impending thing, much like the Ronan that wore it. And it started one hot summer when his mother had been cutting their hair in the kitchen. They’d each been taking turns to sit in one of the dinning room chairs, to suffer what Ronan felt was a form of castration at the time, and then be sent off for a bath and then rewarded with ice cream. But once the ordeal had finished and his mother asked if he still felt betrayed, he’d been struck by how much better it felt. He had no memory of how heavy it all had been before, but he was aware that now it felt lighter. When next it came for a trim, and it came thick and fast in the Lynch family, Ronan went first, and asked if he could have it cut a little shorter this time. It helped, not only with the Barns imaginary heat, but with dreams too to his surprise. He found himself able to wonder further, the forest he visited was clearer, brighter, as if his hair had been a heavy black cloud covering his thoughts.

It had gotten to the point, by the age of 16, that Ronan, with a mouth full of braces and an equally metal tongue, wore his hair tightly cut, more a black fuzz that covered his head than the thicket of thorns it had been before. His dreams were a better place, with his short hair, his brothers, his mother, the barns, and most dearly his father. The compliments on how much he resembled Niall poring over him the happier he seemed to sometimes feel about himself. 

This was a time short lived to say the least. And it had been after the funeral, after he’d drowned in “you look so much like your fathers"s and "I thought you were Niall"s that he'd found himself wanting, staring at the bastardised features that pretended to be his father. How they ached to be real and not a memory of a person. He found amongst the hair gels and sleeping tablets, a box containing a old electric razor. It felt almost symbolic, his fathers razor used to remove his father from him once and for all, or at least the first layer, almost a consent to wash himself of tears and put it into his fists. It was a small clarity in a dark time. It felt a little easier to breath, and in turn easier to take the keys to the BMW. And at 80mph it was even easier again. 

Come the winter he was reminded of it all, the heat, the weight, and the accursed stubbornness of the Lynch family hair. The black fuzz was back coating his head like a rash, like a relentless fungus. He opted to wearing hoods and trucker caps to hide it, to detach it from his features, to Gansey’s delight. He seemed to think Ronan had finally headed his warning of catching a cold but it was more the latter that pleasing him. (Even if he chose vaguely hinting sports caps, that included birds, dragons, and armoured men. Gansey’s double takes were a gift at least.) 

Unfortunately however much he protested in removing it, he was forced to when Sunday came. No hats in the house of God. He’d didn’t remember that passage but still took it off as he sat in his place next to Mathew. He caught him double take too, but it was to stare for a hairs breath too long. Ronan knew what he saw, or rather who, and hated himself for reminding them of whom they’d lost. Mathew was only a mite quieter during the hymns he sang so whole heartedly, he didn’t sleep when the pastor read, and it drove Ronan to opt for hugging him instead of initiating their normal hand shake, come the end. Mathew had clung to him before getting into Declan’s audi, and Ronan had watched him try and fail to hide the gentle rub of his eyes as he closed his door. Declan reminded him of homework and nothing more, not meeting his eyes as he did so and then rolled up his window. In his reflection on the gleaming metal and slightly tinted glass he saw not himself, but once more his father. Or a ghost of his father, a sickly knock off, like one of Kavinsky’s failed Mitsubishi’s. 

His head felt like it had been dipped in lead. And somehow he managed to drag it up the steps of St Agnes’s apartments and knock on Adam Parrish’s door. 

He heard muffled, shuffling, paper books stashed away, from the other side before Adam, elegant and fair, opened the door. 

"You’re early.” His smile was hesitant, tired but held a slyness to it that, already, threatening to make Ronan smile back. It was an empty threat and Ronan simply shrugged his way into the tiny flat, hands shoved deep in his pockets, features pulled sharpened to their finest points. It was clear that Ronan was not much in the mood for doing any talking. And Adam watched him for a minute as one of his pocketed hands tore out, rubbed the growing stubble on his head and them shove the back in aggressively. 

Ever since Persephone had shown Adam he could scry with a mirror he’d decided a mirror was a practical purchase and looked nice on the back of his door. This time when Ronan turned to pace he caught his reflection in its dusty surface, he saw Declan first. Then Declan’s eyes avoiding him at all costs. Mathew next. The feeling of his too tight hug. Then him, Niall, their father, but some angry cruel version they had not seen. He clenched his jaw and rubbed his head as if it were a piece of dirt clinging to his scalp. Adam recognise the unspoken irritation and anger. And casually commented: “Someone needs a hair cut.” Adam, with part of the smile Ronan had been greeted with, the hesitant one, said it with halfhearted humour, but Ronan didn’t laugh. 

He was too sleep deprived and the haunting of his own face caused so much pain, of how he was too weak to have moved past this. It caused him to spit a “Fuck off” that he instantly regrets. But Adam, used to Ronan’s angry language, forces himself to shrug it off. 

“I’ve got an old electric razor somewhere…save you some money rather than going to a salon.” Because it’s barely a mossy fuzz and Ronan definitely needs to save money. That earned a nick of sharp smile and without much fight Ronan followed Adam to his bathroom, or rather closet with a shower, toilet, and miraculously a sink. There is nowhere else to do it other than in Adam’s shower. And they sit, Ronan all but in his lap seemingly indifferent to the boy glancing between the razor in his hand buzz as if if he were to take his eyes off it it would leap out his hand and shave Ronan’s head clean off. Ronan himself held his shoulders tense and his hands tight at his sides. Adam set himself with a small gulp of air, and turns it on. He began inching the fast moving blades closer and closer to the back of his neck. 

“Adam." Adam stops, startled. "Shave. It. Off.” It was barely spoken. More of a contorted sound of air pushed through clenched teeth. Adam felt his cheeks flush at his friend's tone, and decided to pretend as if he is doing his own hair. He curves the razor up from the base of his skull. 

Something lifts. Like an open window in a stuffy room. Some of the taught muscles in Ronan’s back unhinge and his shoulders sag fractionally. And Adam’s a little more confident that he’s shaving his _friend's_ head and not a feral animal, and takes to smoothing a hand over Ronan’s skull, like he would his own, as a guide, a sensation, to get it back to that rough but smooth texture. He’s careful but the more of this darkness on Ronan’s head he removes the more relaxed they both become. To the point where Ronan’s head is all but a weight in his hands and obedient to his touch. With his back to him, Adam is unaware of Ronan’s closed eyes, his lazily parted lips,  letting Adam rome his now baby soft hands over his head, his neck, gently and timidly pressing his ears out of the way, dusting fallen hair off his shoulders, and blowing hot breath on his almost completely bare head. 

Adam gets him to turn around once he’s done with the bulk of it. And thanks to Adam’s paranoia of perfection uses small extended razors with single blades to clean the edges of Ronan’s hairline. Ronan laughs, when Adam explains himself, and its a throaty thing, that seems somewhat dusty, as if it hadn’t been used in some time. He continues, content now, and Adam gives him a small smirk, only small. He’s very aware of the skin of Ronan’s eye lids twitch as he glances up at him and to the hairy shower floor, always moving, filled with nervous energy Adam decides. Maybe because Adam is still using both hands to trace his skin, and maybe it’s because he looks just as beautiful as always, despite the fact that his bathroom lightbulb is a sickly, bright, white-blue. But regardless, Ronan needs a distraction less he do something he'd regret. 

Suddenly Ronan shouts out in pain. Adam, alarmed, drops the razor for putting his hands in the air.

“Ronan! Are you okay?!” Adam shouts,“ Did I cut you!” But Ronan is sniggering. Adam scans his features just as sharp as ever but now, held tight to stop from laughing. “You asshole!” 

“Your fucking face,” he snorts and laughs that laugh with its sinister edge, as with everything Ronan shaped nowadays. 

“You asshole I thought I hurt you!”

“Oh my god, are you okay?!” Ronan mocks in that too high pitched Henrietta accent through his laughter. And Adam, angry but unwilling to remove the smile that has yet to leave his lips, simply glares and grabs his chin, grumbling asshole under his breath, and tilts his head to the side so he can work on his sideburns. He wonders now that maybe he doesn’t think he’d lose that much sleep if he just drew a little bit of blood, maybe he doesn’t need a full 8 hours and picture day isn’t for a little while. Therefore leaving him a little less concerned about his hands, that are still shaking. Now getting sweaty. He’s more concerned about Ronan’s suppressed giggles that are making his shoulders shake, and lips quiver, and his eyes sparkle, and Adam’s inability to stop himself from looking. _No I’ll b carful_  he thinks to himself. 

“Hold fucking still” He mutters. A halfhearted attempt at coming across as angry. Adam shoves his head down so he can check behind his ears and just clean up the back of his neck. It’s is definitely more practical to have him turn around. But there’s something, somewhat erotic and thrilling, Ronan thinks, having Adam’s hands push is head down toward his lap. Something that Ronan would probably dream about later. He pays close detail to the run of Adam’s weird thumbs over the back of his head.

“Lynch! Stop fidgeting…” Adam says. He says ‘Lynch’ like he would a laugh. The same way one would say butterflies or sweetie, loud and clearly echoing a smile. “Not that funny.” He continues to grumble, before pushing Ronan’s head into his chest and complaining. “God, why are you so tall?” With Adam’s heart a diaphragm away from him, Ronan is quieting. His sniggering is more a hum now. And Adam can feel his breath though the thin cotton of his t-shirt, and hopes his pounding heart isn’t audible. It’s a futile thought, Ronan can feel Adam’s heart beating, as well as his face getting hot. In silent awkward and unfamiliarity they’re both quiet. 

Until Adam announces he’s done and gentle pushes on Ronan’s shoulder, encouraging him to sit back and to look over his work. Adam is holding the same mirror that had hung on his door. But Ronan doesn’t look up at him instantly, his cheeks are hot and his hands are in his lap. 

Adam holds the mirror tight and waits for Ronan, who eventually glances at it and nods. 

“Cool…cool.” 

“Come on,” Adam insists softly. “Take a look” It doesn't quite feel like he's talking about the hair when he says it. It sounds like an echo of his thought at the Barns with the Ronan and his dream things.  _What're we doing?_ It echoes. 

“It’s good.” 

“Good?” He’s a little offended. Ronan, is refusing to look at him. “Come on Lynch” 

“Its probably perfect. Whatever Parrish I trust you.” Adam blinks, partly out of shock. Ronan Lynch trusts him after all, and that’s not a big deal, he mustn't make it a big deal. But still Adam wonders if he’s done something wrong. 

 _Why won’t you look at me?_ he doesn’t say. “I want to know what you think.” Adam says instead. As if it’s less about his opinion of him as a hair stylist, and more on Ronan’s deepest secrets. But of course he’s not asking that. Adam is nothing if not respectful of people’s secrets. But then of course he wonders and he is wearing that careful smile. And now that Ronan is looking at the mirror; _Jesus, Mary, Joseph, am I red_ , Adam has done, unsurprisingly, a beautiful job. He glances up to see Adam’s smile getting cockier. Ronan unwittingly let out a sigh of relief when he smoothed his hand over smooth scalp. In his relief he mumbles:

“What do I owe you?” And its more a question to himself because he didn’t realise how much his buzzcut meant to him. How much Adam helping him meant to him. How much he really wants to just touch his lips against Adam’s just to see if he could transfer all he is feeling to him, his gratitude, his obsession, his adoration.

Adam’s quietly confused however. “What?” 

“I said how much do I owe you?” Ronan jokes, breathing a laugh. He wonders if he should first flirt a little, then offer a quick kiss to Adam as payment, even if it's nothing more than a joke but Adam isn’t laughing, or trying to hide his laugh, or trying not to frown. His fair eyebrows are bunching together.

“God…” Adam sighs. “Lynch, you are just as bad as Gansey.” His features take a bitter hold now, that pained twist that forms in the face of money and pride. “Why have you always got to make things about money? You know us poor folk are capable of doing something out of care, right?” He mokes his own accent and then quickly, he frowns and mutters. “Course you let me do your hair…”

Now Ronan is confused, “Wait, what? I didn’t-” 

“I can’t believe I fell for your bullshit again.”

“Parrish, I didn’t mean it like that I was gonna…” Ronan was a little hurt and angry, but more over disappointed, his bravery is leaving him. Though it seems that this meant as much to Adam as maybe it did to Ronan. But he’s losing all that nerve he worked up, he can feel himself getting more worked up and less determined to show Adam what this means. 

“You were gonna what?” Adam says, attitude thick, “Leave me a tip while my back was turned?” 

“No!” 

“Then what?!” 

Ronan’s silent. Adam’s silent. Both fuming. They’re both holding their breath and glaring at one another. Then Ronan, with the dregs of his courage and a dash of stupidity, kisses the corner of Adam’s delicate mouth. It’s so quick and small that both of them need a minute to actually appreciate that _yes that just fucking happened_. And the bathroom is so quiet that Adam can hear Ronan swallow and watches him wince. This wasn’t how he’d dreamt there first kiss. In a hair covered shower floor, red faced and hyperaware of how easy it would be to just get up and make a run to the door. Barely a run, just three long strides and he’d be gone. 

But then Adam opens his mouth to say something. Then closes it. Then blinks, blinks. Then: 

“I…Ronan…” He says his name, while he touches the crook of his mouth. Ronan's mouth is dry. “That was..." What? Nice? No we didn't burst into flames but Ronan would be lying if he said he didn't want to do it again. And Ronan doesn't lie. 

"I'm not sorry." He grimaces as he says the words, and surprisingly Adam laughs. Ronan, in all his glory, looks like a petulant child.

"Good." Ronan, frowning at the warn floor, performs his smokers breath, and take a heavy gulp of air. The space between them feels like miles and miles, and the silence is louder and more painful than Mathew's organ playing. But then Adam is still holding the side of his mouth, as if the kiss, the feeling, the memory, the intent, would fly away if he moved his hand. Ronan can't stand his stillness.

"I won't do it again-"

"No." Adam cuts him off suddenly, but then quieter he repeats, "No, I don't mind."  _He doesn't **mind?**_ Ronan thinks. Adam as always was being so careful. Mind? Mind what? Ronan? Ronan's feelings. His impulses. This. Them. He desperately wished Adam would just simply tell him if he could kiss him or not. But he was watching him now. Watching the frown on his forehead turn the cogs of his mind. Adam repeats again. "I don't mind..."

"Don't mind what?" Ronan spits.

"-If you kiss me again." 

 _Oh_ Ronan thinks and then louder again thinks _OH_ as if the flood gates have been opened and he suddenly has to prove that he can swim before he drowns. Adam's other hand is tight on his leg. And Ronan studies it for a moment, before carefully reaching forward and prying finger tips from denim. He watches Adam watch him as he brings Adam's knuckles to his lips. It's all he can do, for fear that if he let himself come anywhere near those lips the part of him drunk on hungry glances, that part that slaved over all the songs he wanted Adam to hear, would consume him and worse Adam. Ronan closes his eye's before pulling his lips from Adam's hand, and he feels it twitch the slightest bit longing when he sets it back down. 

Adam, a little giddy with soft kisses, blurts out. "What's that for?" And instantly regrets it in a wave of red cheeks. 

Ronan hesitates, "Your tip." He says quietly. Just for Adam. Who's turn it is to giggle, and move his hand from his knee to Ronan's, his cheek to Ronan's cheek. For a brief moment Ronan wonder about Adam's bravery, if his silence was preparation, if he even needed that, before it's completely abolished by warm breath mingled with his own, and lips touching his up touched cheek. Then the corner of his mouth. He decides he doesn't care, he cares about Adam but not about anything else and lets his hands find this magicians hips. Find his mouth and hold it in his own. _This magician_ he thinks quietly to himself, pulling Adam as close as this small shower will allow, this magic man moved the lead from his heavy head, and filled it with laughter and cautious kisses. Magical, Adam never fails to make even the dingiest of showers, the smallest of bathrooms, and the lowliest of apartments seem magical. When they part it's to a heavy gaze and the vision of chapped lips pulled into a smile. 

"If you want to use the shower It'll cost you extra." Adam grins, that hesitant, party sly smile, that greeted him at the door. This time there is nothing to hold the corners of Ronan's mouth down and he smiles back with what he hopes shows the thoughts, the feeling, the intentions, he cannot word. At his Adam's beaming, beautiful features he decide in the same breath between pulling Adam close again that it will be a while before he uses the shower. 


End file.
